


Anyone's But Mine

by thegirlwiththemouseyhair



Category: Velvet Goldmine
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Complicated Relationships, Drinking, Hero Worship, M/M, References to Drugs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-17
Updated: 2017-11-17
Packaged: 2019-02-03 11:53:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12747783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegirlwiththemouseyhair/pseuds/thegirlwiththemouseyhair
Summary: Maybe that’s just what Arthur gets for seeing Curt without being high; maybe the whole glam scene doesn’t make much sense and can’t possibly be that satisfying if you’re too sober. He should have made sure to be on something, like he was the first time he slept with Curt. Or maybe it’s true what people say, and you should be very careful about meeting your heroes…





	Anyone's But Mine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cptsdcarlosdevil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cptsdcarlosdevil/gifts).



“Sorry about that,” Curt grins, closing the door behind them.

“Oh, no, it’s fine,” Arthur says. Then he shuts his mouth, aware of the sweat dampening his palms. _Don’t say anything stupid,_ he chides himself. He’s hardly even had any friends, until the last few weeks, and now Curt Wild – _Curt Wild_ – has slept with him, and tracked him down through the Flaming Creatures afterward, and made plans to see him again even though it meant being chased through Hyde Park by screaming fans and reporters. The fans were easy to deal with. They seemed understandably thrilled when Curt gave them the finger, which must be cooler than _not_ seeing Curt at all – and quite jealous of Arthur, too. The reporters were more determined, with their demands for interviews about the hoax Brian Slade shooting, and their huge, rather intimidating-looking cameras. Idly, Arthur wonders if any of them got a picture with him in it. He imagines his parents seeing him on TV or in the papers, his hand clasped tight in Curt’s as Curt dragged him through the Park. He doesn’t know how he feels about that, whether he hopes his parents see, or not.

“What is it?” Curt asks.

_Shit,_ Arthur thinks, his throat tightening. _What do I say so he won’t think I’m stupid?_ Then again, Curt probably isn’t keeping him around for his intelligent conversation. He knows that, but he doesn’t want to risk one of the best things in his life by being awkward and idiotic, either.

“Nothing,” he replies. It seems a safe answer. He smiles at Curt, a little nervously, then looks around the hotel and tries not to gape. He has never been anywhere so, well, _beautiful._ Decadent, in fact, like something from an old film. Cream-coloured walls, gleaming wood wainscoting, and gold-tipped columns make Arthur rather self-conscious of his battered jacket and faded flares. He fumbles to button the jacket, for whatever the gesture might be worth.

“Never been here before?” Curt asks. Arthur can _hear_ the sparkle in his eyes before he has even turned back to him.

“No,” Arthur says.

Curt exhales his smoke, and tilts his head toward a grand piano in one corner of the foyer.

“The elevator’s over there. The _lift_ , I should say. And you should see the shithole I grew up in, in Michigan. I’m doing well now, but don’t be –” he hesitates – “embarrassed if you’re not used to fancy places like this. Brian’s the one who was comfortable here, not me.”

A tightness creeps into Curt’s voice that wasn’t there a moment ago, and his smile fades. No wonder: he and Brian only broke up a few weeks before. Then there was that dreadful fake assassination, which was scary and sad enough for Arthur, who was just a fan. Arthur can imagine how devastating the news must have been for Curt, who’d been Brian’s lover, but who apparently didn’t hear that it _was_ a hoax until the whole world did, in the press. That must have been really rough. It’s obvious every time Curt mentions Brian or performs a song they worked on together how much Brian meant to Curt, and how raw the wound is. Arthur wishes he had the courage to reach for Curt right now, despite the liveried hotel staff and overdressed old ladies hanging about. In fact, he wishes he knew how to be comforting or affectionate without seeming too clingy. It’s obviously never come up with the Flaming Creatures, who are far too cool for that sort of thing, or with any of his one-night stands. He settles for taking a step toward Curt. His heart beat quickens as he does.

“Do you want a drink?” Curt asks. "The bar's that way..."

Arthur leans in closer, flushing.

“I’d rather be alone with you,” he whispers.

“Great. I like the way you think,” Curt squeezes Arthur’s hand, quick and discreet. Arthur looks around again, his nerves tingling. “Come on. There’s fucking fantastic room service here, anyway; they’ll get you anything you want. I mean, they _should_ ; we’re paying enough for this place – me and Jack Fairy…”

He lets his voice trail off, and slips his arm around Arthur’s waist. Arthur’s breath catches in his throat. He’s almost tempted to pull away: it’s too damn exposed here. But he tells himself to hell with everyone else in that hotel; he’s with Curt Wild – _making fucking history_ – and lets Curt guide him through the foyer (where, mercifully, no one really notices them) and toward the lift.

*

“Really, don’t be nervous about the fancy hotel,” Curt remarks, uncorking a bottle of what looks like champagne. Arthur watches drops of condensation drip from the bottle onto the tabletop. “Drink?”

“Thanks,” Arthur murmurs. “And it’s – the hotel’s amazing; it’s no problem.”

“So what is it? If you’re not in the mood, I can call you tomorrow. We can fuck at your place instead –”

“No.” Arthur reaches for Curt, and kisses him. He has to tilt his head down, more than he’s used to, with Curt, because Curt is wearing low, sensible shoes instead of the platform boots he often performs in, and he’s several inches shorter than Arthur with nothing to even out the height difference. It doesn’t matter. Curt kisses back hard, probing Arthur’s mouth with his tongue, and making Arthur keenly aware of warmth spreading outward from the pit of his stomach.

“That’s better,” Curt says when they break the kiss. “You looked so fucking jumpy and sad ever since we came in the door. Was it having to run away from the press? ‘Cause the last thing I need is a bunch of fucking paparazzi cockblocking me…”

Arthur laughs. He loves Curt’s boldness even more than his outrageous American slang – which, in this case, hardly needs a definition despite being new to Arthur.

“It’s not that,” Arthur assures him.

He supposes he could get used to attracting attention, sometimes, to be with Curt. He’s only met Curt once before today, and yet, he thinks he’d do anything for Curt – anything at all. But Curt won’t want him long term; he’s nothing special, and he knows it. That’s all right, too.

“So what is it?” Curt asks, sounding so sincere that Arthur can imagine melting into a puddle at any moment. “Here. Have a drink; it’s hard to be nervous when you get some of this in you. Or do you want something else instead? I’m staying off hard shit for now, but I’ve got some weed and some ‘shrooms in the bedroom. I figure that all-natural stuff can’t be too bad for you…”

“This is fine,” Arthur says, accepting a glass of champagne.

“Then what’s wrong? If it’s not some weird class hang up about fucking in a room that’s probably had all kinds of royalty and prime ministers staying in it – I mean, I actually find that _fun_ to think about, but you might not…”

Arthur downs several sips of champagne, and beams at Curt.

“The Prime Minister lives ten minutes from here,” he points out. “I don’t see why any Prime Minister would have needed a room in this hotel.”

Curt sniggers. “Good point. I always knew you were a smart kid – smarter than me, anyway.” He trails his fingers along the small of Arthur’s back. Arthur can feel his cock getting hard. “Now, what’s the matter? Baby…”

Arthur can’t hold back: Curt’s too sweet and kind for that, on top of being gorgeous and a musical genius. Being with him is incredible, as intoxicating as any drink or drug Arthur has had. Sometimes it seems more real than any friendship, either. As Arthur finishes his glass of champagne, he realizes that being with Curt – being _chosen_ like this – is really all he has ever wanted out of his life. If he died today – if he were to get hit by a double decker bus leaving Curt’s hotel, or something – he’d be perfectly happy.

He pours another glass of champagne before answering.

“I wasn’t ‘sad’,” he says, and laughs a little – it’s almost a giggle, _God_ – as he says it. “It’s just – when we came in and they were taking all those pictures, I –” _Curt won’t mind_ , he tells himself. _The first time we slept together, he stayed awake half the night asking me all sorts of questions. He_ wanted _to get to know me; he said so._ “It’s weird, more than anything.” He blushes, his skin going hot. “You won’t think it’s stupid?”

Curt raises an eyebrow, expectantly. Arthur screws up his nerve, and blurts out, “I was imagining my parents seeing us together on the telly, how they’d react. I almost wish they _could_ see us together. Well, my dad; I’d spare my mum the embarrassment if I could.”

“You know there’s _nothing_ for either of them to be embarrassed about, right?” Curt says, his tone dead serious for a change. “Or mad about, or that gave them the right to hurt you. And them being pieces of shit – it’s their problem, not yours. Okay?”

Arthur nods, shaken by Curt’s urgency and anger. He takes another drink.

“I wish they’d call you when I’m with you,” Curt goes on. “If we ever met up at your place or something. I’d tell them _exactly_ what I think of them, in the most graphic way I know.”

“Not likely,” Arthur mutters. “They’re not exactly in touch. Made it clear they didn’t want anything more to do with me. At least, my dad did.”

“Shit. You’re the one who – you said – ” Curt falters. Arthur has the distinct impression that Curt has mixed up his life story with someone else’s, despite encouraging Arthur to confide in him that morning on the rooftop. Arthur’s surprised at how little he cares. It’s almost comforting, in fact, knowing that Curt has seen it all so many times before.

“Never mind. You’re better off without them.”

Curt squeezes Arthur’s shoulder, rather absently, before opening the bar fridge with his free hand and taking out another bottle. Arthur sets his champagne glass down on the counter, beaming at Curt all the while.

“I know that,” he says. He stares as Curt pours a shot of whisky into a glass that’s still filmy from the day before, tilts the small glass to his lips, and downs it, his throat working around the liquid. Arthur puts a tentative hand on Curt’s hip. The grin that spreads across Curt’s face emboldens him. As soon as Curt has finished his drink, Arthur tugs him closer with one hand, and caresses his face with the other.

“Bedroom?” Curt asks, hooking his thumb into the waistband of Arthur’s jeans. “We’ll be more comfortable than last time…”

Arthur nods. They stumble into the bedroom, still entwined with one another. Arthur’s foot catches on something heavy near the doorway – a guitar case, he thinks, judging from the scraping sound against the wall and the discordant buzz of strings – but Curt holds him up and they manage not to trip, even as Curt leans away from Arthur to put out his cigarette in one of the many ashtrays littering every side table in the suite.  

“Lie down,” Curt whispers in Arthur’s ear. His stubble scrapes against Arthur’s neck. Arthur nods his head, though he gives Curt a lingering kiss before stepping away from him, stripping off first his jacket and t-shirt, and then his jeans and pants, and lying down on the king size bed. He aches to touch himself, but resists, afraid to do anything that will end this encounter sooner than necessary. Instead he thinks back to their first time together. He imagines he can still feel Curt inside him. The anticipation of doing that again is almost too much to bear; he bites his lip, watching Curt rummage through the clutter of the night table.

“Sorry for all this,” Curt laughs, triumphantly holding up a tube of KY jelly he has retrieved from a drawer. “Couldn’t remember where I put this, and I want to pound you into the mattress _without_ causing you horrible pain…”

Arthur shuts his eyes for a moment at the mental image.

“Will you hurry up and get to it?” he teases. He hopes Curt won’t mind. Quite the contrary; Curt laughs, and flings himself on top of Arthur. He tries to kiss Arthur on the mouth, but misses, and instead trails a series of feather-light kisses down Arthur’s forehead and cheek. The touch is tantalizing to Arthur, who was already rock-hard and impatient. He fists his hand in Curt’s long hair, tilting his face so they can kiss properly. Their teeth clack. Arthur doesn’t care; he squirms beneath Curt, trying to angle his cock to grind against Curt’s leg or hip or groin, anything that might give him some measure of relief. Curt bites at Arthur’s lip. Arthur stifles a moan at that wonderful, brilliant pain and at the sudden pressure of Curt’s hand on his cock, pumping him.

He finds himself panting when Curt pulls back for air, leaning his weight against Arthur’s body and still fondling Arthur’s cock. Arthur swallows. He feels as if he could drink in the heat of Curt’s touch and the beauty of Curt’s mussed hair and darkened eyes. Curt holds his gaze, unflinching, as he attempts to wrestle his jeans off.

“Not too fast for you?” Curt asks.

Arthur thinks of their first encounter, how slow and romantic Curt was, right down to the poetic things he’d whispered to Arthur as Arthur approached him on that cold and dingy rooftop. He’s just as happy with today’s more frantic pace.

“It’s perfect,” he says, and means it.

Curt manages to kick off his jeans and pants, and tosses them to the floor without bothering to remove his shirt. Instead he leans into Arthur once again and captures his lips in another greedy kiss.

“Don’t let me hurt you too much, when I’m fucking you,” he says, turning from Arthur long enough to pick up the discarded tube of KY. “Unless you want me to…”

“I want you so much,” Arthur says, in a strangled whisper. “I’ll be fine.”

He turns over, instinctively, offering himself to Curt. A moment passes. He shifts position, trying to minimize the strain on his arms and shoulders. Soon he feels Curt’s lips brush his shoulder blade, and a slicked finger presses into his arse. Arthur’s breath hitches. He rocks back a bit, eager to take more of Curt into him.

“That OK?” Curt asks.  

“Yeah.” Arthur moves one hand downward, so he can stroke his own cock. The angle is awkward, but the tightness coupled with the pressure of Curt’s finger filling and stretching him is so good, so hot. “Please –”

Curt obliges, slips another finger into Arthur, and works them deeper inside him. The touch makes Arthur’s spine tingle; he squirms, wondering dimly how he’s going to last. Then Curt withdraws his hand. Arthur can’t suppress the small whimper of loss and need. The room is suddenly chilly, despite the plush, pristine white blanket beneath him. He’s grateful when, seconds later, he feels the heat of Curt’s body pressing against his back, Curt’s hand on his hip, his grip hard enough to bruise, and his prick at Arthur’s entrance.

“Ah,” Arthur cries.

Curt doesn’t start thrusting for a long moment while he waits for Arthur’s muscles to relax. When he does start fucking Arthur, he builds rapidly to a desperate, rutting rhythm.

“You all right?” he grunts, over the creaking of the bed-springs and the knocking of the headboard against the wall. The small part of Arthur’s brain that has remained aware of such things hopes there’s no one in the next suite over to hear them.

“Yeah,” Arthur moans. “Just – go ahead.”

Curt obliges him. Arthur is aware of burning, almost painful fullness and that tingling in his spine. Curt clamps on his shoulder with his teeth. A shudder runs through Arthur. He knows he can’t hold on much longer, and it takes only a few more of Curt’s thrusts and a few pumps on his cock before he comes in hot spurts over his hand and that gorgeous blanket. He sags forward, reeling, his mind blank. The movement breaks Curt’s bruising kiss. When he’s able to think again, Arthur realizes with some pride that he’s going to be wearing Curt’s marks for a while. He wonders if he may be able to get hard again while Curt’s still inside him – if Curt can keep going long enough – or if he’ll be too stunned from too good an orgasm.

The strained sound of Curt’s voice, however, suggests that Curt is close to coming, and intrudes on Arthur’s blissful fantasy.

“Brian,” Curt whispers. “Fuck – _Brian_ –”

Arthur tenses. Part of him wishes he hadn’t heard that, wishes Curt had kept his mouth shut. He supposes that’s why Curt didn’t seem interested in face to face sex – not that that fact had bothered Arthur minutes ago, when they started. He wasn’t thinking then. His mind wanders back to Curt’s anger and defensiveness at the mention of Arthur’s parents. The thought nags at him that he probably can’t trust any of that, if Curt might not even know who he was with or who he was talking to.

And yet, Arthur had fantasized so much about being with Brian before he met Curt, or being with both of them – or of _being_ Brian, being that beautiful and talented and iconic. Curt whispering Brian’s name while fucking him – isn’t that a little like his fantasy? Shouldn’t he be as turned on as ever? His face goes hot, though his stomach feels as if he has swallowed cold ashes. He supposes he _is_ somewhat turned on, which only makes him more embarrassed. He doesn’t know what to think. Maybe that’s just what Arthur gets for seeing Curt without being high; maybe the whole glam scene doesn’t make much sense and can’t possibly be that satisfying if you’re too sober. He should have made sure to be on something, like he was the first time he slept with Curt. Or maybe it’s true what people say, and you should be very careful about meeting your heroes…

Curt breathes Brian’s name once more as he comes. Then he withdraws from Arthur, and lies down. Arthur stretches out beside him, too confused to speak.

But Curt must realize that something’s wrong, or at least realize that he wasn’t fucking Brian Slade a moment ago.

“Shit,” Curt says suddenly, as if he’s waking up from a bad dream. “Sorry, I didn’t mean – Don’t worry about…”

_You’re not helping_ , Arthur thinks, turning onto his side and eyeing Curt warily. The look of something rather like panic in Curt’s face makes Arthur soften. To step into Brian’s life and out of his own – that was what he wanted, wasn’t it? _Be careful what you wish for,_ he thinks, but tries to shrug it off.

“It’s fine,” he says. He’s not sure that it is.

Curt, however, seems content with Arthur’s answer. His mouth quirks into a grin.

“Come here,” he says, tugging Arthur into an embrace. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

Arthur stares past Curt, at the damask wallpaper. _Not in the way you’re thinking._ He shakes his head, wishing he weren’t so childish and unreasonable. He doesn’t know where the mood has come from; he was never like this before, with any of the blokes he has slept with.

“Next time,” Curt goes on, “I want you to fuck me at least as hard, okay?”

Curt suggesting a next time, a third time. Arthur supposes he could get used to playing the part of replacement Brian, if it’ll make Curt stick around. It’s not like he ever had much pride, he thinks, nodding, and letting his eyes fall shut. He realizes that he might be moody because he’s tired. The sex and the long hours he has been keeping ever since he left home may be catching up to him.

“Hey, don’t fall asleep just yet,” he hears Curt murmur. Arthur struggles to open his eyes as Curt straddles him, and places a tender kiss on his mouth. Arthur kisses him back, his earlier annoyance dissolving into longing. After all, he _shouldn’t_ be hurt. It’s obvious that Arthur Stuart isn’t cool or important – not like Brian Slade. He _shouldn’t_ have too much pride, shouldn’t try to get above himself, or expect to be more than he is.

“Can I stay here if I _do_ fall asleep?” he asks. “Just for a bit…”

“Sure,” says Curt, nuzzling Arthur’s neck before he, too, lies back down, and leans his head against Arthur’s shoulder. After some hesitation, Arthur takes Curt’s hand, and finds that Curt returns his grip. There are so many things he wants to ask Curt. He imagines the conversation, as he did so many others in his daydreams when he lived at home. _You sure you don’t mind if I stay? Sure it’s all right that I’m not – that I’m not him?_ But it would be pathetic beyond words to voice those thoughts. It’s far better to hold onto Curt for as long as he can, willing away his unease and concentrating on the warmth of Curt’s weight beside him and against him, and drift off to sleep, hoping Curt will still be there when he wakes.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to gonergone for the beta read.


End file.
